


Wrestling Through the Dark Night

by oilpainter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1880s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood, Canonical Character Death, Depression, F/M, Family, Friendship, George is very sad, George lives van Gogh's life, Grief/Mourning, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt/Comfort, Kind of a crossover, Mental Health Issues, No Smut, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Past Character Death, Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Self Harm, Sibling Love, Some really heavy stuff, Theo is a supportive brother, Time Travel, Torture, minimal romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:01:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22356076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oilpainter/pseuds/oilpainter
Summary: "Who is it that interprets for us in shapes and colours the magnificent, grand life that in our century people are experiencing with an ever-greater self-awareness? I know only one, a pioneer, a lonely wrestler in the dark night and the generations to come should brand his name upon their memories: Vincent."Only a week after the Battle of Hogwarts, George Weasley is attacked and finds himself in France in 1888 due to a mysterious spell. 110 years out of time, he must learn to live without Fred, overcome language barriers, hide his magic from the muggles and find a way to get back to 1998.And who is this earless muggle painter he keeps getting mistaken for?
Relationships: Angelina Johnson/George Weasley, Fred Weasley & George Weasley, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	1. His Everything

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I wrote about 3 years ago and posted on ff.net under the same username. I wrote 3½ chapters and then abandoned it. But I'm reading through it all again and posting it on AO3 in the hopes that I might get inspired and finish it, even if it takes years!
> 
> This story deals with heavy topics like depression, suicide and self harm - because I'm writing about the true story of Vincent van Gogh's life. Van Gogh was depressed and manic, he cut off his own ear, he tried to poison himself... it's not happy stuff. George post-DH is also very depressed, and not in a good place because he's just lost his brother. So please be aware of all that before reading, and check the tags.
> 
> I hope this is a unique plot that you'll be looking forward to reading!

**10th May 1998**

One week.

It had been a whole week since George had lost his brother, his twin, his everything.

He had never known so much pain. It wasn't the type of pain you could quantify on a scale of stubbing your toe to giving birth - no it was the kind of pain that mercilessly ripped your insides into tiny fragments. It was the kind of pain which had destroyed George's heart so much that he wondered; _is my heart even still there?_

Nothing felt right without Fred.

Being without his other half was unnatural, it went against all the laws of nature and the universe and yet–

He was still here.

How was it that the sun still shone and the world still turned and the birds still sang cheerful songs in the trees? How could he possibly continue to exist without the shining, guiding light that was Fred Weasley?

George was depressed. There was no question about it. He was practically catatonic in his grief.

For the past seven days, he had stayed locked in his and Fred's – _his_ – refusing to speak to anyone, barely eating, and only leaving to be physically sick in the bathroom. Mum had left meals outside his door every day for the past week, still taking care of him despite the fact she was grieving too. And he appreciated the effort, he really did, but the thought of eating anything made him feel ill. So most days he let it go cold. It was starting to show that he hadn't been eating – he could now count all his separate ribs in his ribcage, and his wrists were about as small as Ginny's now.

He felt so weak, so pathetic, so god damned helpless.

Most of the family had tried to talk to him at least five times during the week. His dad would quietly stand outside the door, taking in sharp breaths as if he was about to say something and then letting it out again, becoming nervous. After perhaps two minutes of this he would knock twice and say George's name quietly. Each time George would stay silent and Arthur would try the handle, find out it was locked and sigh. He would ask George to talk to him when he was ready, or he would say something along the lines of "we're all grieving too but I can't imagine how much pain you're in. Is there anything I can do to help?", or he would ask him to come down for dinner. Still George would say nothing, tears in his eyes, and his dad would leave eventually. Everyone left him eventually.

His mum would usually apparate into his room after getting no response. She would open the curtains every morning, do a few cleaning spells to get rid of the dirty socks and litter on his floor, and lay out fresh clothes for him. Occasionally she might comb his hair, and it felt kind of patronising as he was a 20-year-old man who owned a very successful business, but it was still comforting. Molly would ask him to shower and he would shake his head no, then she would ask him to come and eat breakfast, to which he would stare at the floor, then she would beg him to just _say something please_ and he would look at her blankly. She would leave after a while, visibly upset and deciding to give up on him.

Since the battle, Bill and Charlie both stayed at home, not wanting to be away from their family whilst they all suffered from grief.

Bill would always come and visit George in the evenings at about 8pm, knocking loudly. When he got no response he would sigh loudly and leave.

Charlie tended to just apparate in when he felt like it, trying to pull George out of bed, handing him all sorts of leaflets about war-related grief counselling in St Mungos, telling him "what you need is a bit of fresh air." The last time he had come to see George was three days ago, and as he rambled on about solutions to getting over grief like meeting a nice girl, or finding something productive to do like inventing new products for the shop, the younger brother had snapped. He yelled, "I don't need your fucking help! Leave me the hell alone," pushed Charlie out of the door and slammed it in his face. He hadn't come back since then, and Ginny said he had gone back to Romania.

Ginny, like Charlie, seemed to think that talking endlessly about nothing in particular would help George. And, unlike in Charlie's case, it was kind of working. She would give him his own space, sitting herself down outside his door for about an hour late in the evening when she couldn't sleep and knew George wouldn't be able to either. And she would talk about everything but the war, Fred and grief counselling. She would tell him all about who was dating who at Hogwarts, the pranks she and Neville had played on the Carrows, and new muggle music she had discovered. With Ginny, everything felt completely normal and natural.

Well, she always had been his favourite sibling ( _after Fred_ ).

Ron and Percy didn't come and talk to George. Perhaps they couldn't bear to see his face because it would remind them of _him_. Perhaps they were too busy, or too buried in their own grief. Or maybe Percy just didn't care enough to talk to him. Maybe he was too cowardly to look at him. George couldn't bring himself to care.

An alarm rang. He groaned. Despite the fact he was barely getting any sleep, despite the fact he had literally no reason to get up early, he still had an alarm every morning to keep a sense of routine, and to remind himself that another day was going to pass by with him doing nothing. It was like his pointless motivation because it did nothing except make him annoyed. He would consider leaving his room for the day, but every time he would be reminded of Fred and he would feel sick.

"Silencio," he muttered, and the silence rang in his ears.

He laid back down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Another day of emptiness. Another day without Fred.

Thinking of Fred brought back bad memories again.

_He was back at Hogwarts, running through the corridors after Voldemort had called for an hour-long truce, sprinting and wheezing in his desperation to find Fred. Something felt wrong._

_He passed unconscious and dead bodies of students, teachers, Order members and Death Eaters alike. The sight of some 6th year Gryffindors comforting each other and standing over Colin Creevey's lifeless, blood-covered body made him sick. He was just sixteen. Barely a child. The camera he would usually hold in his hands wasn't present and instead the boy's stiff fingers clutched onto the splintered wand which had failed him in his last moments._

_But no matter how terrible it was, George didn't have time to stop. He rushed down the stairs, almost tripping, and passed Neville and Luna just before the door to the Great Hall._

_"Hey, Neville–" George panted. "Have you seen Fred? I'm - I'm really worried. We were split up earlier–"_

_He couldn't finish._

_Taking a glance through the open door he could see a family of distinct redheads gathered around a person lying on the ground, in the space where the Gryffindor table should have been. The person was lying completely motionless and their mother was sobbing loudly._

_"No – please don't tell me that's – anyone but–"_

_Without stopping to think, George pushed past Neville and Luna towards what was possibly one of his dead brothers. He felt like he might be violently sick all over the Great Hall. And he felt horrified at the thoughts that were racing through his mind. He was wishing it was Bill, or Charlie, Percy or Ron. Anyone but Fred. Please. Not Fred. He passed McGonagall and Slughorn, who were sat on the benches healing the injured. They watched him with pity in their eyes._

_Many people in the Great Hall had now turned around to watch. Angelina, who had come in moments after George, sobbed._

_There was a deep sense of dread in his heart – and as George approached, he saw none of the figures surrounding the body were Fred. There was Bill and Charlie, standing shoulder to shoulder, tears streaming down their faces. Mum, Dad and Ginny, kneeling down and trying to comfort each other. So was it Ron? Or Percy? Or Fred?_

_It was him. The figure on the ground had the same face as George. The same clothes, eyes, smile …_

_George's heart lurched and his knees buckled._

_He made no sound. No matter how hard he tried, no sound escaped his mouth – not even a sob, or a whisper or gasp. He just stared at his dead twin brother. Fred's chest wasn't moving. For all of George's life, Fred had been living. Fred was born first. As long as George's heart had been beating, so had Fred's. Now it wasn't. Now it would never beat again._

_Fred couldn't possibly be dead because a world without him could not possibly exist. They were going to own a flourishing business and they were going to live until 150 and play pranks on their great great grandchildren. They were supposed to never leave each other._

_George's vision was blurry. He looked up from his twin's lifeless chest and stared at his eyes which stared vacantly up at the ceiling. All laughter was gone from Fred's eyes. The stars used to shine in Fred's eyes._

_Now the stars had switched off and the universe was empty._

The sight of Fred's lifeless, vacant eyes brought George back to reality. Every time he blinked he would see his brother lying dead on the Great Hall floor, and the image of it seemed to be burned into his eyelids forever. The memory would never leave him. He gagged and practically fell out of bed to rush to the bathroom. George barged in without knocking and Ginny, who had been getting changed, shrieked and quickly pulled a towel over herself, but she couldn't even bring herself to be angry at him as he bent down over the toilet to vomit up the small amount of food that was in his stomach. It came out as nothing more than bile. There were tears in his eyes and he gave a desperate sob as he remembered that his brother was gone. Forever.

George gasped in some air desperately and tried to vomit again but nothing came up. His greasy, sweaty hair fell in front of his eyes and he pushed it back. He knelt down, slouched against the toilet, and put his head in his hands. Dizziness overtook him.

"Georgie," Ginny whispered, sitting down next to him and tying his hair back in a ridiculous top-knot to keep it out of his face. He and Fred had decided to grow their hair out a little in the past few months, partly to cover the gaping hole where his ear had been, and partly because it infuriated Aunt Muriel. Now his hair was just dull and dirty, and an annoyance. Ginny rubbed his back comfortingly and he couldn't help feeling pathetic. Here he was, a 20-year-old man, not able to function properly, being looked after by his kid sister. It was humiliating. "Do you need some water?"

"No," he replied, his voice hoarse. She looked slightly pleased that he'd even talked at all. Maybe she thought he was making progress. Well the truth was that the pain would never go away. Whether he talked or not, whether he went to counselling sessions or not, his twin would always be dead and there was nothing about that that would change.

"You need some water," she said stubbornly, as if she hadn't meant to ask it as a question in the first place. The splashing of water into the cup felt incredibly loud to his ears – well, ear – and his hand trembled as he took it from her and took several gulps. It relieved his throat and got rid of the vile taste in his mouth so he drank it all, sitting back onto his heels and leaning against the wall. The space where his ear had been throbbed and he winced. It still pained him occasionally, particularly in the last week when his body had been under so much stress. It acted as a constant reminder of how much he had lost in the war.

Ginny sighed, sat down next to him and reached up to put an arm around his shoulders. "Do you want to talk?" she asked softly.

"Not really," he murmured, leaning his head on her shoulder.

"Ok."

They sat in a comfortable silence for a while before Ginny turned to face him and held both his hands. She looked him straight in the eyes and he glanced down at the floor, trying to count the tiles.

"Look at me," she whispered.

George did as his sister said because if there was one thing he learned in life, it was to not disobey a Weasley woman.

"I'm not going to tell you that everything will be alright because it won't. Your life has been completely turned upside-down and you've lost the one person you cared about the most. It's expected that you'll be grieving, it's expected that you'll be heartbroken, and this pain will never stop. Because Fred is–" here she paused and inhaled sharply. "Fred is dead and there's nothing we can do to change that. All we can do is try to cope as best as we can and this – _this_ , George, is not coping. It's as if you're completely lost without him, and you have no identity without him. But that's not true! You're George Weasley. You're brave, you're funny, loving, and not to mention incredibly annoying, but you're your own person and you need to learn to cope as not a part of a whole but a whole. I'm not going to tell you to get over it because that's ridiculous. I just want you to stop feeling so god damned miserable and sorry for yourself, and to continue your life. I'm not saying you should forget Fred. Just please, please don't let yourself become nothing without him."

George just stared at the floor again, running his hands over his face. "I'm sorry," he murmured, this time placing his sister's head on his shoulder.

"It's ok," Ginny sighed. "Just promise me that you'll do your damned best to continue living. Can you promise me that?"

With tears in his eyes but refusing to let them fall, George nodded.

"Now let's get you cleaned up," she finished, wincing as she noticed the vomit on George's shirt for the first time.


	2. Green Dragon-skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a review if you enjoy the story :)

Like every other day since the 3rd of May, George didn’t go downstairs for breakfast. He could almost sense his family’s - _mostly Ginny's_ \- disappointment but he couldn’t face it. He just couldn’t face acting normal as if nothing had happened, plastering a smile on his face, cracking jokes and eating a full meal. It would feel wrong. And he couldn’t pretend to be happy, not when his whole world had been viciously torn apart. It would feel like an injustice to Fred.

Everyone kept saying that Fred wouldn’t have wanted him to be so upset over his death but did they really know Fred at all? George had known Fred like the back of his hand. No, he had known him _better_ than the back of his hand. Fred wouldn’t have said “cheer up Georgie and bring a smile to everyone’s face,” no he would have said “yeah, you’d better be upset that I died! I’m so handsome, charming and wittily hilarious that I’m surprised you’re not rolling around in a ball on the floor sobbing your heart out!”

A knock at their – _his_ – door brought him out of his depressing thoughts. That’s all he seemed to do nowadays, mope around thinking depressing things. It was days upon days of being stuck in his own torturous thoughts of _I wish I had died instead_ and _this is just a horrible nightmare that I’ll wake up from at any second_.

“Georgie?” his mum’s voice sounded softly outside the door.

He flinched.

The only person who ever called him Georgie was Fred, or occasionally Ginny, but their mum had stopped calling him that when they were about 12 or so. He and Fred had never been particularly close with their mum as she would always get angry at the pranks they pulled and the insensitive jokes they made in serious situations. Not to mention how much she disapproved of their chosen career path. Bill and Percy had always been her favourites, even when Percy had abandoned the family out of his own pride. In her eyes Percy was the perfect son.

Again, George didn’t reply to her.

If he used his voice he knew it would crack, either from sadness or anger. He didn’t know anymore. His emotions were a jumbled up mess of chaos and depression. Everything hurt.

“George,” Molly murmured. “Will you come and have breakfast? Or at least go outside for some fresh air? You’ve spent so much time in your room this week, it would do you some good to go for a walk…”

Silence again.

There was a distinct sigh from outside the door but George couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty. Next he heard the quiet clink of a china plate or bowl being placed down on the floorboards, a sound that had been heard about three times a day for the past week. And his mum’s footsteps faded away faintly until she got downstairs.

George rolled over on the bed and turned to face the wall, trying to stop the tears in his eyes.

He stayed in that position for what felt like hours but was probably only twenty minutes, and eventually forced himself to get up and bring the plate of bacon and eggs in, stomach growling. Poking at one of the eggs, he found that it was cold. He tried taking a bite but grimaced at the texture and taste, still feeling sick.

The plate was left on his desk, untouched.

It was a depressed day.

Sleeping was futile because of the noisiness of the birds chirping outside his window, reading was boring and too Granger-ish, inventing products wouldn’t feel the same without Fred, heck he didn’t even have anyone to play exploding snap with anymore–

After staring at the wall for a bit longer, wondering if his glare would burn a hole in the wallpaper, George groaned and decided to throw himself into tidying his room.

The doorbell rang several hours later while he was rummaging through the wardrobe contemplating which clothes to get rid of or even if he should get rid of them at all. George froze when his hand brushed over a green dragon-skin coat and he quickly pulled his hand away, as if it had burned him.

_Fred died in that coat, Fred died in that coat, Fred died in that coat –_

George closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. The scent of mothballs and dried blood permeated his senses and he stumbled back to sit on the bed, feeling nauseous. There were reddish-brown stains on the coat and he couldn’t stop himself from thinking _where was he injured_ , _how did he die_ , _did it hurt_ , _could I have stopped it-?_

An unfamiliar knock at the door interrupted his near-panic-attack and he quickly slammed the wardrobe door shut and opened the window, letting the fresh air get rid of the metallic smell.

“What?” he snapped, heart beating furiously, barely even noticing that for the first time he had talked to someone who wasn’t Ginny.

There was a sharp intake of breath from the person behind the door. Perhaps they were shocked that he was talking, or perhaps they were shocked to hear a voice which sounded so much like Fred’s.

“George–” Lee’s voice sounded. “Can we come in?”

There were some furious whispers and George sighed, heading towards the door. “You know he’s not going to let us in; Arthur said he hasn’t spoken to anyone all week and only Molly’s been in his room. Lee this is ridiculous…”

It was Angelina.

George’s heart skipped a beat.

“Well, we can apparate in–”

“That’s invading his privacy–”

“Alohomora?”

“That’s never worked, you know how strong their locking charms are –”

Angelina and Lee blinked in surprise as the door opened. A man they barely recognised stood in the doorway, eyebrows raised and looking at them disbelievingly. His eyes told a story of immeasurable pain.

“Hey,” Angelina said softly. She lifted her hand, perhaps as if to caress his cheek, or run her hand through her hair, or slap him. George wouldn’t have been surprised at the latter.

It was comforting to see her again. She was just as beautiful as ever, despite looking tired, stressed and mournful. Her eyes flashed with a brief moment of pain as they looked into each other’s eyes and he knew in that moment she had seen Fred.

Angelina being there felt refreshing, and relieving. But also horrifically awkward. Everything had changed between them. She had been dating Fred for two years before they broke up in around January and since then she and George had been stealing loving glances when Fred wasn’t looking and flirting after Order meetings and Potterwatch recordings. Heck they had even had sex once or twice (and it was a very pleasant experience but he couldn’t stop himself from feeling guilty each time).

Now the guilt was eating him alive.

He should have told Fred.

It’s not that Angelina was off limits; she and Fred had mutually broken up because they didn’t have feelings for each other anymore (although George doubted that in Angie’s case). Fred probably didn’t care what his ex was up to and wouldn’t have been mad that George was falling for her.

He just felt guilty because it was the one secret he had never shared with his twin. And now he never would.

Instead of slapping him like he thought she might, Angelina pulled him into a tender hug.

George froze but returned the embrace. Her hair smelled like lavender.

Lee whistled nonchalantly and rolled his eyes. Then he shrugged and joined their hug, wrapping his arms around both of them. He kissed George on the cheek and Angelina laughed. The sound of her laugh was the best thing George had heard all week and her happiness was enough to give him a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach, diminishing his sadness for at least one short moment.

Eventually they settled in George’s room and continued cleaning his room. Having his friends around him helped take his mind off Fred for a while, and although he still occasionally looked over his shoulder to see Fred’s reaction to one of Lee’s terrible dad jokes, and although he still only said half sentences expecting Fred to finish them, he felt less lonely.

Lee was rummaging around in the desk, blowing dust off books and catching the occasional joke product which would jump out at him. He skillfully avoided some imminent disasters with a punching telescope, a half-brewed draught of living death and a vicious pygmy puff prototype which tried to bite his nose off. In the struggle with Ruffles the puff, some papers fell to the ground.

George stunned Ruffles and collected the papers. They were forms with the profit and expenditures for the month of April, and all their proposed ideas for future products. He sighed and left them in a black folder on a shelf.

Lee glanced at the papers. “What are you going to do with the shop?” he asked cautiously.

George paused. “I don’t know. I don’t think I can face going back there for at least another month. I’d just be seeing my past with Fred everywhere, seeing all our memories in our inventions, and hearing his voice. I’d go stir crazy I reckon.” His voice was hoarse. He fiddled with his wand mindlessly, twirling it around.

“We can keep it working and clean if you want,” Angelina offered, giving him a reassuring smile. “Verity has been restocking and tidying everything. We can help her get the shop open again and maybe work at the counter a few days a week.”

“Thank you,” George whispered. “Really. It means a lot. Everything brings back memories of him – the Burrow, our bedroom, the flat, the shop. I don’t think I can cope with it yet. And I can’t pretend to be fine for our – my customers.”

“You don’t need to fake happiness,” Angelina replied, squeezing his hand. A single strand of hair fell in front of her face and George suddenly had the urge to brush it away and kiss her. “George, you don’t need to pretend to be fine for anyone, your customers, your family, your friends. We’re always here for you, through the good times and the bad.”

Lee clapped loudly and pretended to wipe away a tear. “Well said, Angie, bravo.”

If there were actual tears in his eyes neither Angelina nor George decided to mention it.

“Ok shut up, Jordan. Now we’re going to stop being soppy and get back to cleaning. You didn’t finish organising the desk!”

“… and there’s our normal slave-driving Johnson back again,” Lee muttered, grumbling and getting back to work.

George grinned, and for once, it didn’t feel forced. 

\-----

In the evening, when Lee and Angie had left, the damn birds had stopped singing so loud and the sun was hidden behind the trees, George finally left his room. For the first time in a week he had eaten his whole dinner, as the grumbling of his stomach finally overtook him. Although he didn’t have the courage to go downstairs and eat with his family, it was still a step forward.

Cautiously making his way down the stairs, George blinked at the huge contrast in brightness between his room and the rest of the house. He felt like a new-born child making his way out of the comfort of his mother’s womb for the first time. And it felt like he was starting a new life too; a life without Fred. He had been reborn again, this time with the weight of the world on his shoulders and no twin to share the burden with.

He paused in the downstairs hallway. There were pegs by the door and one of them was empty. George took in a deep breath and took his green dragon-skin jacket from the peg next to the empty one. His own jacket was clean, thankfully. And, as he shrugged it on, it felt comforting. It felt like Fred was there with him, walking two steps behind him and about to crack a joke. But it didn’t make him depressed; instead he gave a small smile and continued on his way.

No one stopped him as he left through the front door. Presumably the other Weasleys were all in the kitchen, living room, in their rooms (Percy certainly was), or out. That was ok – he’d left a short note saying he’d taken his mum’s advice and gone for a walk.

The family was still on edge one week after the end of the war because, as George now knew, wars never end in one glorious final battle. There were still some Death Eaters, werewolves and dementors at large, and the wizarding world had been warned to stay aware of their surroundings at all times.

But George didn’t reckon there would be twenty dementors in Ottery St Catchpole. Nothing exciting ever happened in Ottery St Catchpole. 

He strolled around the village for a bit, feeling immersed in the muggle world and wondering what life would have been like without magic. An old lady smiled politely at him and he grimaced back. Her eyes widened when she saw his ear (or lack thereof) under the streetlight and she hurried to the other side of the street.

George was used to receiving reactions like that since last summer. But this time Fred wasn’t here to tell her to bugger off… and that sucked.

Making his way to the pond he and his brothers used to play at, George left the village and headed further into the countryside.

As he got further away from home, all he could hear was an owl hooting and the rustling of leaves in the summer breeze. His war instincts kicked in and he knew that, although it was peaceful and relaxing out here because no one could disturb him, that was the exact problem. He was far enough away from the village now that no one would hear him if he were to shout. It was a perfect place for an attack.

George hummed a tune and turned back the way he had come, kicking at some mud and watching a squirrel scurry up a tree. Still, he clutched his wand in his pocket, ever aware. Mad-Eye Moody’s voice barked in his mind: “constant vigilance!”

Even after the ex-auror’s death, his advice stuck with George.

There was a suspicious rustling sound from a nearby bush and George held his wand tighter, not wanting to expose himself to a muggle but also wanting to stay protected in case of an attack. Maybe he was just being paranoid. Must have been a badger or a fox–

Too late, he spotted the hooded figure and malicious eyes peering at him from behind the bushes. “Petrificus totalus!” the Death Eater shouted, and George fell backwards, petrified. He mentally kicked himself for not reacting sooner. He even had his hand on his wand and was ready to fight back!

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck,_ he thought. _This isn’t good_.

The Death Eater emerged from his hiding place and kicked George’s wand out of reach. It rolled over and rested in a puddle.

“Fancy seeing you here,” the man sneered. George didn’t recognise him because of the hood covering his face but the voice seemed oddly familiar. Perhaps he had fought him before and the Death Eater wanted revenge. “Well, it’s not so much of a coincidence in fact – I’ve been waiting for you to leave the wards of your home, and this was my chance. I want to finish what I started. I’m going to kill you tonight.”

George’s heart was in his throat and he was sure that if he wasn’t already petrified he would have been frozen in fear. _Great, this is such a great way to go,_ he thought. _Lying in a puddle, leaving nothing more than a note to my family. No one will find my body for a week._

A darker thought entered his mind.

_At least I won’t be without Fred anymore._

The Death Eater gave a psychotic grin which sickened George. It was clear the man had been driven mad from power and hatred. He wanted nothing more than to cause pain and George was certain that there would be at least a little blood shed tonight. He was certain that, like Fred’s, his dragon-skin jacket would soon be drenched in blood.

The man lifted a hand up dramatically to his face and George would have loved to have sarcastically said _oh get it over with, mate! I don’t have all day._

He pulled down the hood.

It was Augustus Rookwood.


	3. Blood in the Snow

Augustus Rookwood was not a memorable man.

He was unremarkable; with greying brown hair, dark eyes and a tall, lean figure. He looked just like any other 40-year-old man who you would pass on the street, smile at and say hello, then be on your way.

However, it was his expression that showed his true personality. He was smiling threateningly in a near-grimace, and his eyes showed the insanity within. It was clear that the man had gone mad.

George knew a little of his past, having heard stories from his dad. Rookwood had worked in the Department of Mysteries in the First Wizarding War, manipulating politicians and ministry workers alike, working his way to the top and discovering all of Magical Britain’s secrets. The fact that an Unspeakable could be a Death Eater and controlling the Department of Mysteries on behalf of Voldemort shocked many people at his trial, and he was sentenced to Azkaban until escaping in 1996. Clearly Azkaban had driven him mad, like it had done to many others.

The last anyone had seen of the Death Eater was at the Battle of Hogwarts. George had seen Percy fighting him and had assumed Rookwood to be among one of the captured or injured.

Yet somehow, he had escaped.

“Good evening, Weasley,” Rookwood said charmingly, almost as if they were having a pleasant chat at a bar whilst drinking a nice warm butterbeer. “I hope you’re nice and comfortable. We’re going to have a bit of fun.”

George tried to pull a disgusted face, but it was as if the muscles in his body weren’t working. He was completely paralysed. It felt horrible to be completely defenceless against a murderer and he was mentally kicking himself for not being able to react sooner. Although he knew there was little he could have done. Rookwood had the element of surprise on his side.

George glanced at his wand which was soaking up muddy water. It was about four feet away and he knew he could reach it if only he were free of the petrificus totalus jinx. He tried a non-verbal, wandless summoning charm but nothing happened. Closing his eyes, he focused on bringing the wand towards him, chanting in his mind _“Accio wand. Accio. Accio wand!!”_

Nothing.

_Well, Fred was always more talented than me at charms_ , he thought bitterly.

“Giving up already?” Rookwood sneered, and George opened his eyes to give him a deadly glare. “Well, that’s good. At least it makes my job easier.”

The Death Eater twirled his wand around and crouched down next to him. His dirty, frayed robes brushed against George’s arm and the unpleasant smell of stale, week-old sweat reached George’s nose. He would have wrinkled his nose if he could move. It was clear Rookwood had been on the run for the whole week since the Battle and hadn’t had any time to care about hygiene.

“Poor lonely Weasley,” the ex-prisoner whispered in George’s functioning ear, stroking the younger man’s hair in a creepy gesture which sent shivers up his spine. It was a caring gesture which his mother had done many times but now it seemed tainted by the horror of this twilit evening it seemed unlikely he would survive. “He’s all alone, about to die in the woods where no one can hear him scream. Maybe he’s wishing for death so he can be with his dead little twin… but I’m not going to give him that sweet release for a long, long time. This blood traitor is going to suffer until he’s unable to even talk or _think_ , and then maybe – if I’m feeling kind – I’ll kill him. This is going to be so much fun.”

A wave of emotions overtook George, unobservable from his face due to the spell he was under, but it showed in his eyes. Anger, fear, helplessness. And above all, sadness. All he could think was _please just kill me already_ and _let me be with Fred_.

“I’m going to torture you until you want to die. You’ll be a drooling mess unable to communicate, reduced to a vegetative state like the Longbottoms – and if I’m sent back to Azkaban, I don’t care. It’ll be very, very _funny_ to watch you in pain.”

The last words were said in a quiet, almost comforting murmur, but the meaning of the words completely contradicted their softness. Rookwood had been driven into madness. There was no doubt about it. Anyone who thought it was entertaining to watch someone scream from inflicted pain was clearly a psychopath.

Rookwood bent down further until his warm breath was on George’s neck. Then he kissed the younger man on the forehead almost tenderly.

George was internally freaking out. His eyes were wide and his heart was beating at a rate he hadn’t even known was possible. He felt like he might vomit.

“Poor Freddie. I almost feel sorry for you.” Then Rookwood gave a sickening grin and sat back up again. “Oh, my mistake. You’re George aren’t you? Little Freddie is the one that died… well, I would know that wouldn’t I? After all, I was the one who killed him.”

Breathing in deeply, George stared up at the canopy of trees above him. The sun had already set, painting the sky in dark blues and greys, and the leaves rustled peacefully in an early summer breeze. Despite the time of year, it was fairly chilly – but it was nothing compared to the unsettling cold feeling which had rushed through his body at Augustus Rookwood’s words. It felt like he had just been doused in icy water. 

It all made sense now.

Percy had been with Fred when the wall exploded and collapsed. Percy had chased Rookwood away from the scene, furiously bombarding him with dark curses George never would have guessed his perfect older brother even knew about. He had looked incredibly upset and angry at Rookwood… why had George not seen it earlier? Then it seemed Rookwood had escaped ( _damn you, Percy,_ George thought. _Couldn’t you have killed him when you had the chance? It would have saved me lots of trouble_ ) and now he had found George, hoping to torture him and kill him painfully. It seemed the Death Eater wanted to finish what he started; he wanted to destroy the Weasley twins. Perhaps he wanted the fame and glory which would come from within the Death Eater circles (most of whom were now in Azkaban), where everyone would know that he was the one to finish the mischievous, powerful, irritating Weasley twins once and for all. But it seemed more likely he was just in it for the fun; the blood lust; the adrenaline rush which came with killing.

He was sick in the head.

If George wasn’t so angry, he would have pitied the man. He had been reduced to nothing after Voldemort’s demise. All his “friends” were gone, all his power was gone. It was pitiful.

“I murdered your brother,” Rookwood whispered, grinning. “I caused the explosion which killed him. It’s funny isn’t it? How fragile humans are. One tiny bombarda maxima broke his bones, crushed his skull in with metal pipes and drove sharp debris into his heart, and no spell would have been fast enough to protect him. I saw the light leave his eyes… and it caused me immense satisfaction to know I took that light away.”

A furious tear escaped from George’s eye, and he hated himself for his vulnerability. He was breathing heavily, almost panicking, and every word Rookwood said felt like a corrugated knife digging further and further into his chest, twisting his insides and causing as much unimaginable pain as possible. The trees above looked blurry from the tears obscuring his vision and he tried to calm down.

_Think of Angelina_ , George told himself mentally. _Think of Quidditch, or Hogwarts, or long summers at the Burrow inventing potions and products. Think of Fred, pulling faces back at Tonks and transfiguring his own nose into a pig’s snout during an Order meeting, laughing at a joke Lee just made, dancing crazily at the Yule Ball, pulling you into a group hug with Ginny, enchanting paper airplanes to fly around Filch’s office during detention; 11 year old Fred laughing hysterically at the Giant Squid which tickled his hand as it ate his chocolate frogs, 4 year old Fred giving triumphant shouts as you flew far above the Burrow on the brooms stolen from Bill and Charlie –_

_Don’t think of his lifeless cold body lying on the Great Hall floor. Think of the happy 20 years you had with him, not the lonely 80 years you’ll have without him._

But now – it seemed unlikely he would have any of those 80 years anyway.

There was a high-pitched ringing sound in George’s ears. Since losing his ear he’d had problems with balance, nausea and almost deafening ringing sounds but he knew this time it was from anger and nothing else.

He was so immersed in his internal pain that he didn’t even hear or see the curse coming.

George gritted his teeth as the excruciating pain struck him. It felt familiar; the cruciatus.

It felt like thousands of knives had been dipped in red hot lava and were stabbing every inch of his body continuously. His limbs felt like they were being stretched apart and then smashed to pieces and he couldn’t breathe and his vision turned white –

The pain was worse than when his ear had been cursed off by Snape, and when heart had been split in two after he had learned of Fred’s death. It felt like he was being burnt and torn apart from the inside and when would it stop, would it ever stop –

He needed to scream and shout but his mouth refused to move and it felt like his tongue was tied, so all he could manage was a soft whimper. But at least it was a sound.

Twenty seconds felt like it was stretched into an eternity before the pain finally ended abruptly.

George gasped in some air desperately.

“That was no fun,” Rookwood complained almost childishly. “I want to hear you scream.”

The words barely registered in George’s mind. Even after the curse ended, the pain was so overpowering, so all-encompassing that his senses felt dull and he already felt like he might pass out.

Rookwood kicked furiously at his victim’s ribs and a nauseating crack sounded in the silence of the woods. George closed his eyes and gasped in several sharp breaths. An owl hooted nearby, and George pessimistically wondered if he’d ever hear an owl again after tonight.

“Finite incantatem,” Rookwood eventually muttered. 

George’s heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t believe Rookwood could be so stupid, but he supposed all Death Eaters lacked common sense given they followed a half-blood Dark Lord who preached about blood purity. It seemed Rookwood had decided to release him from the petrificus totalus jinx because he wanted to hear him scream – but he had forgotten this would also give him the freedom to move again.

As soon as he was released from the petrifying curse, George leapt at the chance. Trying his best to ignore the complete agony seeping through his bones, he lunged towards his wand and desperately grabbed at it.

“Incarcerous!” the Death Eater yelled, taking a few steps back. George ducked the spell, his head hitting the ground hard, bringing stars to his eyes, and turned towards Rookwood. “Cruc–”

“Expelliarmus!” George exclaimed, his voice hoarse. There was now mud and blood in his hair and he felt dizzy from the cruciatus, his possible broken rib and now the impact of his head on the ground, but he jumped towards Rookwood as soon as the Death Eater’s wand flew from his hands. “Stupefy! Expulso, locomotor mortis, redactum skullus! Sectumsempra!” he fired curses and hexes in quick succession, showing his skill at duelling and wide knowledge of spells. And he was accurate in his aim too.

However, Rookwood ducked and rolled out of the way of the spells, reaching for his wand. The expulso hit a tree instead, splitting the trunk in two and propelling wood into the air, but it fell in the direction away from the two wizards.

As soon as the other had a grasp on his wand, George leapt at Rookwood with his full body weight. They scrambled for a moment, fighting for survival, desperate to seize each other’s wands and win the fight. Both threw a few punches, George nimbly avoiding a hit aimed at his throat which could have seriously hurt. He pulled at Rookwood’s wand but the Death Eater kept a firm grip, managing to knee George in the stomach in the process.

George fought bravely and seemed to be holding his own, managing well – until Rookwood made a grab for his wand, turning the tables and pushing George off him, and the wand flew into the ex-prisoner’s outstretched hand, seemingly from a non-verbal summoning charm. The twin fell back against the ground, his elbows resting in mud, and Rookwood grasped the two wands triumphantly.

_Oh great,_ he thought to himself. _So Rookwood can do a non-verbal summoning charm but I can’t? That seems really fair._

As Rookwood smirked maliciously, hatred in his eyes, blood dripping down from his nose and giving him a terrifying, murderous look, George’s next thought was: _That’s it._ _I’m screwed. This is the end._

“I could kill you now,” Rookwood said calmly, spitting blood onto a rock. George’s heart was beating fast from adrenaline, so he internally begged it to shut up. It felt so loud that it seemed likely the other man could hear his fear.

The warm May night suddenly seemed five degrees colder.

“You could have killed me at any point this evening – but you just decided to have a nice little speech instead,” George replied sarcastically, hiding how terrified he was with humour. Just like he and Fred had always done. Pretend you’re happy and calm; always make people laugh… it would distract them from the real pain you were feeling. “Personally, I would have preferred if you had killed me straight away rather than make me suffer through your mind-numbingly boring speech. Why do the villains always have to take so long explaining their evil plans? It ruins the surprise.”

It wasn’t a good idea to infuriate a murderer who had their weapon aimed at you.

Rookwood twirled his wand gracefully. George would have made another snarky comment asking if the older man could teach him how to do that because he’d spent many bored Potions lessons trying to master the graceful wand twirl… but he bit it back. His heart felt like it was pounding out of his chest. 

“You know what,” the Death Eater continued. “I’m not going to give you the sweet release of death. That would be too kind, and as you can probably already tell… I’m not a kind man. I’m going to use a curse which causes more pain than the cruciatus curse, a curse which will bring you so close to death but never kill you… a curse which will reduce you to a begging, snivelling mess by the end.”

It felt like George’s heart was in his throat. What could possibly be worse than the cruciatus? Sectumsempra? That was the only spell he could think of which felt anything like the torture curse, but even then, it wasn’t enough to make him want to beg for death. He’d already been through it once before, surely it couldn’t be worse the second time?

“You see,” Rookwood murmured with a dramatic pause that seemed to last a lifetime. George considered nominating him for an Oscar in that moment. “I spent over five years working in the Department of Mysteries. I know all their darkest secrets, all the experiments they were doing in the late 70s, all the spells they were creating, and this one… well, I’m very proud of this curse as it’s my own invention. I never got to test it properly because it was ‘inhumane to subject any being to such immense pain’… but I suppose you can be my test subject. I’m curious, after all these years, to see how it works.”

George felt like a defenceless lab rat, just waiting for the pain which would come, knowing there was nothing he could do about it and no way he could protect himself.

“Say your last goodbyes, Weasley,” the Death Eater taunted, but he didn’t even give him two seconds to prepare himself. “Separo anima,” he hissed, and after those two words George heard nothing else.

It felt like he was dying.

This was a thousand times worse than the cruciatus curse; it was worse than when he had seen his identical twin lying dead on the Great Hall floor. It was unimaginable pain, so bad that he couldn’t see, hear or even feel the ground underneath him. There were hundreds of dementors sucking his soul out and a 300-pound sumo wrestler was crushing his ribs while a steak knife was being driven into his skull over and over again and he was being strangled to death and he couldn’t breathe and he tried to scream but all sound refused to come out –

The high-pitched ringing sound from earlier had returned in full force but so, so much worse and it was a screeching hellish sound that felt like it would never end. He covered his ears in pain and slammed his head against the hard ground even though he couldn’t feel the ground anymore and he hit his head harder wishing it would stop, would it ever stop, _can I just die, please let me die_.

Was there blood on his head, in his hair?

He couldn’t tell.

There was blood everywhere, on his hands, in the sky, on the trees, in his eyes, dripping from that man’s nose – who was that man?

If George could hear he would have heard himself make a sound which was barely human at all. It was a mix between a whimper, a groan and a strangled scream which would make even Voldemort himself shed a tear.

Everything was spinning and he felt like he might vomit, faint, or just scream in pain.

_I’m dying, I’m dying, I’m dying._

A stake was repeatedly being driven into his chest and he tried to scream but it just came out as another breathless whimper. The bones in his body were breaking over and over again and his heart was being torn in two, then ripped apart more and more until the blood soaked his chest.

His ear throbbed and sent waves of immeasurable agony through his head.

The only thought that ran through his mind was _Fred, Fred, Fred._

But who was Fred?

He was so cold.

The snow seeped into his clothes, soaking his back and leaving him shivering. And he didn’t even know anymore if he was shaking from the biting cold or from his anguish. Pure snowflakes drifted down onto his eyelashes and rested on his freezing hands, coating him in a thin blanket of winter. It was beautiful.

He was dying, but death was beautiful.

George hardly felt anything anymore, numb from the pain and the cold.

Was that his name? George?

It was peaceful. Death hurt so, so bad, but at least now it was starting to hurt less. Maybe the end was near… maybe he could see his brother soon. He couldn’t remember his brother but all he knew was that he had one he needed to see again… and the word “brother” felt warm, homely and safe. He would be safe with his brother.

The sky looked suddenly darker than it had been before, and his vision was tinted red, making the falling snow look like bloody crystals.

His ear was bleeding. He could feel the blood pouring down the side of his head, laying to rest in a sickening scarlet puddle on the ground. The wound felt like it had reopened again but the pain was no longer bothering him as he felt numbness slowly approaching…

His last thought was _why is it snowing in May–?_

Footsteps approached. They seemed incredibly loud to his ears and crunched in the snow, coming closer and closer.

Not able to look up and see who it was, he slipped into the sweet relief of unconsciousness.


End file.
